Riding Dirty on I-95 Read Free Page B

Things looked promising when she got a call back from McDonald's, where she even had to take a written test, which she passed, missing only one question. She kept checking her pager every five minutes that day, making sure she didn't miss any calls. When the manager called her back the next day, she was certain she had the job in the bag.
    “This is the manager who interviewed you at McDonald's yesterday,” a man said.
    Mercy took the phone from her ear, put it down to her side, and said, “Yes!” She then spoke into the phone. “When would you like me to start?”
    The manager paused. “I'm sorry, Ms. Jiles. We're not going to be able to hire you. Your school hours conflict with the hours we need you to work. But we are putting you on the list in case a position should arise with hours you can work.”
    “Well, guess what?” Mercy said.
    “Yes, Ms. Jiles?” the manager said pleasantly.
    “You're on my list, too,” Mercy yelled, slamming the phone down. One minute after the next it seemed as though doors kept getting slammed in her face.
    “How the fuck I can't get a job at McDonald's?” Mercy cried. “Damn, is my luck that bad? It's McDonald's for Christ's sakes. What the hell McDonald's doing having second interviews and tests and shit in the first place when all a mothafucka gotta know how to do is say ‘Would you like fries with that?’ ”
    Finally, Mercy had gotten out of the group home, and now she worried that she might not be able to uphold her end of the bargain. She was just about ready to say “fuck it” and let the state take care of her for another year, but she had to give job-hunting another shot.
    The next day she met with success. She landed a job at the Ambassador Hotel, which was on the other side of town, and known for its drug traffic, but Mercy didn't give a damn. It kept her in the independent-living program plus put a few dollars in her pocket.
    A senior in high school, Mercy was finished with her classes by 12:30 in the afternoon, so she went straight from her locker to the bus stop. She took three buses to get from school to work, and her commute was two hours. After transferring twice, Mercy usually arrived at work at her 3:00 p.m. start time on the nose. However, if the bus was running late, she was late. Sometimes she was able to sneak in without being noticed by her boss, Farrah. Other times she wasn't so lucky and she was either written up or her pay was docked, depending on how late she was.
    At the hotel, Mercy was the check-in clerk. Farrah was what Mercy referred to as a BBWA (Black Bitch With Authority). She acted like she owned the whole damn company. Mercy had run across plenty like Farrah in her day, and she hated the feeling that developed in her gut every time she came around. Farrah wasn't mean only to Mercy; she was a bitch to all of the employees. Even when she praised an employee, it was in a condescending manner. “Good job, Mercy,” Farrah would say, “but good isn't great.”
    Farrah knew Mercy's situation and how important it was for her to hold a job. She stayed on Mercy's case and seemed to enjoy the power she had over her. So many times Mercy wanted to snap the fuck-off on Farrah, but just as Mercy was about to beat the brakes off her, Farrah would say, “If I were you, I wouldn't do anything simple that could land your ass right back on the doorstep of that group home you came from.”
    Mercy would faithfully have to remind herself that this bullshit was only temporary. She could handle Ms. Farrah, but what she didn't want to do was find herself back at one of those foster homes where she could barely sleep at night, trying to guard her pussy from the man of the house. And she sure as hell didn't want to go back to the group home, where she had to fight the ugly jealous-hearted bitches while at the same time trying to stay out of the way of the manly dyke broads who had been turned out many years before. Stealing pussy was all they knew. So Mercy